Downward Spiral Rising
by Deviant Nation
Summary: He had said to her that one day she would regret ever tying her arms to a burning bridge. Nikki: strong, sarcastic, broken, was twenty when the bridge finally fell. Jude would be there to pick up the pieces and put out the fire.


**Downward Spiral Rising**

**Chapter 1**

* * *

Towards the end, nothing changed. She had always thought that there would be a sign, or signs. A signal, maybe. Something to blindside her across the face and scream 'WAKE UP NIKKI WONG—_WAKE UP_'.

There wasn't.

Nikki had dated Jonesy (Jonesy Garcia—_the_ Jonesmiester) for the better part of three years—not counting the three months when she was sixteen and the remaining nine she had spent wondering if their breakup had been a mistake. So that made four. Four years of her life, _wasted_. Still, she felt she should have seen it coming—the end, that was—and the helpless anger and despair that continually rushed through her at all times signalled her body's agreement.

Not that she had ever fully loved the bastard, or anything. He was an unmitigated asshole; a terrible fucking flirt who made her feel _shame_ and _jealousy _and _embarrassment_ every time she caught him ogling another woman. But something had happened. A word maybe—a memory of something past. ('You're just being jealous, Nik'. God, stop being such a bitch'). Because she had never felt the need to let him know that those terrible feelings within her existed. Just no. She just kept it to herself and scowled. Made that terrible Nikki-esque face that the Clones squealed in fear from and kept all customers hovering around her at safe ten meter radius. Sometimes, she stomped away. Sometimes, she just rubbed her temples, closed her eyes and blinked.

(Whenever she opened them, the scene was gone. Nikki would breathe a sigh of relief. Move on. Ignore. Pretend.)

The thing was...there had been times when - when she had almost... been _happy_, and it was the loveliest feeling she had ever had. It almost made up for all the other shit she had to deal with. Almost.

She fell in half-love (she never would admit to more) with him all over again every infrequent time his lips had quirked into that strange, goofy half-smile and he whispered in a voice so low and sweet: "Nikki, I really like you. _A lot_." Never love, but simply like. She supposed it was the best he could do.

No one ever heard him. He said it when they were alone, or sometimes not alone, but his voice was so quiet and their friends so loud that no one ever noticed. It was always a gorgeous moment, and his smile was to die for.

You see, Jonesy was special, but not in the way anyone else saw him. She was Nikki Wong, _damn it_, and she didn't fall over herself for a pretty face. The words though—they were just so rare, and that made it all the more lovely whenever he said them, never mind the fact that she wasn't that kind of girl. Because Nikki's nails were always broken, her thick purple-black-purple, purple hair was always a mess, and she stuck to baggy trousers at all times. She couldn't go a sentence without swearing and as pierced as she was, couldn't stand the scent or sight of blood.

And he (Jonesy, Jonesy Garcia—_the_ Jonesmiester) had smelled like cologne and sex and sweat and something else she could never name. (It vaguely reminded her of perfume, or maybe cleaning products...she was never really sure. She liked to think and tell herself it was _just_ bleach. Jonesy wouldn't cheat.)

It was just strange, because they worked, in a weird way. Anyone who saw them interact - a small number, mostly just their friends - had a brain standstill caused by Nikki's questionable tolerance of the raucous Jonesy. She would chew him to pieces and spit him out and then rewind and repeat the moment he did something stupid and obscene. _Again_.

She would say, "_Jonesy_, I can't _fucking_ believe you. An old lady? And you pushed her. Down the escalators. What the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

And he would raise his cool, playful brown eyes to her own angry ones before puffing out his chest and say, "Believe it, baby. The Jonesmiester strikes again."

And she would try to slap him upside the head, but he would always see her coming and duck. She never got a real good hit on him. Not once.

And later, when they were a little bit older, she would say, "Asshole, go buy me a slushie or no sex for a week."

His jaw would twitch, but without a word, he would get up and go get her one. And their friends would laugh and his face would turn bright red. It was the only sort of revenge she ever got on him.

She would say, "Fuck," and go silent, and he would look up and quirk a brow. Sometimes he knew when she needed to get something off her chest. Sometimes she thought that maybe - possibly - he actually did care. That he wasn't a total and complete tool who she called her friend and that she wasn't just wasting her time on him. Sometimes, when she was leaving with her parents to Nunavut, she would say, "I got fired from the Crappy Barn. I expected that, I guess..." Or later, when she was eighteen, and freshly graduated from high school, she thought she continued on to say, "I'm coming home," or when she was nineteen, "My parents are getting divorced," and maybe she never told him anything, never managed to because Jonesy never really listened and she was who she was who she wasn't _weak_.

(She was Nikki Wong; sarcastic and tough and strong and somehow she had lost all that when she started dating the biggest mistake of her life. Jude would later say: "You're still so broken, Nikki..." and she would break down and cry in his arms.)

And sometimes (just a month before he did it—called her to the park, and at a midnight said: "I don't think we should see each other anymore") she would just snarl and attack him and scream: "I'm so _sick_ your shit, Jonesy!" And instantly he would call her a bitch and say that she was insecure and just jealous and that he wasn't going to talk to her when she was being so hysterical. That was to be expected, she guessed. Jonesy Garcia, the nineteen year old womanizer who couldn't keep his dick in his pants. And Nikki was a nineteen year old bitch who hated how Jonesy made her _feel. _They went perfect together in that terrible, stomach sickening way.

But she got stronger, and just when she was getting to the level where she thought, '_Maybe he'll grow up_' and, _'I'm so done with this relationship_,' it was the end.

She was just so angry because she should have been the one to do it first. He owed it to her. Fucking _owed _it.

She sighed.

Because towards the end, nothing changed. She had always thought that there would be a sign, or signs. A signal, maybe. Something to blindside her across the face and scream 'WAKE UP NIKKI WONG—_WAKE THE FUCK UP_'.

(Wake up and smell the flowers. They're long past dead and the ground is infertile).

There wasn't.

And Jonesy (Jonesy Garcia—the Jonesmiester) never did say a proper goodbye.

* * *

She had figured (stupidly) that things would always stay the same. That she would always be the one with the ripped cargo pants, the tattered shoes, the piercings, and the thick purple hair that never seemed long enough for a ponytail. These things were her safeguard—her tangible identity—what made Nikki Nikki and not Caitlyn or Jen, or god forbid the Clones. She would always be the sarcastic voice of reason, and the no-nonsense cynic whose tongue was far sharper than need be. She would always be the girl who loved bucking the trends more than she ever loved looking in mirrors.

She had counted on Jen and Wyatt to be her best friends for all time, for Caitlyn to remain her confidante for all things girly, for Jonesy to be her boyfriend and for Jude to always be there as support.

She had also thought they would stay in the same town forever.

(Reality checks from a sardonic sixteen year old be damned, it seemed Nikki Wong would be the only one who would lose herself along the way.)

At nineteen, some things had changed, and some hadn't. She was still the girl with the ripped pants, tattered sneakers, and the purple hair. The nose ring never came out. Her tongue was still sharp and her outlook jaded. She was taller now—slenderer with slim curves still hidden by baggy clothes, and it was arguable that she still loved bucking the trends more than she ever loved looking in mirrors.

Caitlyn was still her soul sister (because sometimes she just needed someone to talk to on the phone while she ate a brick of chocolate and listened to Dawgtoy), Jude (sweet Jude) was still always there when she needed to talk and Jen and Wyatt were still (on paper) her best friends from kindergarten.

And then there was Jonesy.

Jonesy was Jonesy, and Nikki was still Nikki, and when she thought about it, nothing much had changed with either of them. Jonesy was still a terrible flirt and Nikki was still terribly annoyed by his womanizing ways. But that didn't matter—not anymore, because Jonesy had left and Nikki was still _here_. They were over.

So she wrote things down. Static figures (the names of her friends) and facts (best friend, friend, phone friend and so on) and little interesting tidbits to keep her sanity from breaking. (Because she never saw her parents anymore, and Jen was in California and Wyatt had moved to the West coast. She wasn't sure when the last time she saw any of them was. Six months ago? At Christmas time? Maybe? But _wait_—Jen hadn't come home, and neither did Jonesy, so that just left Wyatt...) But if you asked, best friends and their names went side-by-side, if only to ease the harsh reality of what was—_had_—happened to them. Because things changed. People moved. On.

She missed them and wished she had stayed sixteen forever. Because approaching twenty was so harsh and it was even harsher when you were all alone.

* * *

This is how it happened:

She presupposed that her leaving in highschool for her family's short-stayed move to Nunavut had been the catalyst. But she came _back. _(As if that didn't fucking mean anything). And people started to leave.

Jen had been the first to go. She won a soccer scholarship to the University of Stanford. And that was it—she graduated, smiled to her friends and family and said goodbye. Took off to America—to the golden sunny sunshine coast of fake tans and even faker tits. Nikki had been happy for her, and grinned through the pain of losing her female companion to somewhere so far away and _distant._ Next to Jen's name in her notebook she wrote 'six thousand miles.' That was the distance that now separated them. And it took six thousand miles to sever a friendship. Somehow, Nikki thought it would have taken more.

Then, Wyatt left. He picked up his bags and guitar and headed to Vancouver. A small town boy finally moving to the big city—the new soundtrack to his life. He had waved goodbye to suburbia and high school and the Galleria Mall and hopped on a bus. To make music, he said. Vancouver was where the music was. Again, Nikki had grinned and said her goodbyes, but couldn't help but wonder why Wyatt was being so _stupid. _Because she really didn't understand what was wrong with making music, right here, in his home town. With them; his friends.

And then one day (it was a year and six days since their high school graduation—Nikki had returned back home, was attending the local community college with a major in liberal arts and telling herself she didn't mind settling for silver. Jonesy was still her boyfriend. Jude was just being Jude—still skating and working in a local surf shop with an IQ of 175 and not doing anything with his life) when her parents told her they were getting a divorce. Nikki hadn't expected anything more of them.

So that was that.

Sometimes (when she was feeling particularly hormonal and just plain bitchy) she'd call Caitlyn. Caitlyn hadn't left, oh no. Caitlyn still lived at home and mooched off her Daddy's money and made vague plans for a future she hadn't ever really thought about. But the conversations never lasted very long because half-way through, Nikki's sanity would return and she would realize who exactly she had called and for god sakes, was she_ really_ listening to these shitty boy bands again? No. (Yes.) But after Jen left, it seemed difficult to hang around with _just _Caitlyn, alone (heaven forbid), and so it seemed the only time they saw each other was when they all hung out together, as a group (which wasn't happening much these days).

Other times, a quick text would be sent to Wyatt ('Hey, how are you doing?' – 'Fine, you?'). As far as she could understand, he was doing well.

And occasionally she had fired off an email to Jen. Those always ended with shorthanded replies of 'School is really great, but I'm _super_ busy! I'll tell you all about it at Easter, okay?'. And somehow, the planes Jen always planned to take home were delayed, or outright over booked. Nikki was still waiting for Jen to come back for Thanksgiving. That liar.

So that left Jonesy, and Jude. Jonesy followed her to college—an undeclared major who skipped out of his classes and lost marks quicker than he had lost his jobs at the mall. When she graduated from her two year program (she now held a particularly useless certificate in graphic design), Jonesy was still deciding on his program of study and wasting his parents money. Nikki had never been as fortunate as her boyfriend and couldn't afford to waste time (money) getting trashed every weekend at drunken frat parties. She told Jude—reliable, same-old, unchanging Jude (currently unemployed with unlived ambitions of fame and fortune) what she couldn't tell Jonesy ('I don't think I can stay in this city any longer—there's no jobs. I need _out. _I keep fighting with Jonesy—fuck, my parents are still working out their divorce...you're great Jude. Just great. Thanks for listening.')

And he said: "Cool, bra. No problem. And I was thinking the same thing—this fishbowl is getting too small for me. 'Gotta hop to a bigger pond, ya' know?"

She was glad Jude (sweet Jude) understood.

That was April. She was nineteen, almost twenty.

By May, Jonesy had broken up with her and left town.

* * *

**TBC **- Reviews are greatly appreciated.


End file.
